Lately, I’ve been thinking about consistency. I’ve stayed consistent with going to the gym, and I’ve noticed what that practice gives me, the opportunity to challenge my body, feel my strength, focus my attention, and reconnect with myself. But consistency can be easy to lose. Life gets busy. Routines change. We get tired. Sometimes a few missed days become a few weeks, and before we know it, something that was once part of our rhythm has faded into the background. It made me

This morning, I pressed record before I had a plan. There was no choreography. No perfect lighting. No expectation that it had to look a certain way. I simply danced. Movement has always been one of the ways I reconnect with myself. It made me wonder how much of our lives we spend editing ourselves before anyone else has the chance. We soften our laughter. We hide our enthusiasm. We second-guess our ideas. We wonder if we're too much... or somehow not enough. Little by little

There is something remarkable about what happens when we stop asking our minds to do all the work. Today, I spent time in the warm water of a hot spring. I noticed the warmth against my skin, the cool breeze, the scent of the earth, and the gentle sounds of birds. Nothing extraordinary happened. And yet, I left feeling more grounded. It made me wonder how often we search for peace by doing more, when sometimes the invitation is simply to pay attention. Our senses have a way o

Growth rarely begins with confidence. More often, it begins with uncertainty. It begins the moment we try something unfamiliar and hear the quiet voice that says, "What if I look silly?" or "What if I'm doing it wrong?" The body often hesitates before it moves. The first invitation to move can feel surprisingly vulnerable. Even people who are comfortable talking about their thoughts may hesitate when invited to express themselves through movement. Why? Because movement has a

Today I was reminded that the body often says what words cannot. I met with a client whose second language is English. At times, finding the right words to fully express their inner experience was difficult. But as I gently invited movement instead of explanation, something beautiful unfolded. Without needing to explain, they found themselves reaching... reaching for someone who was no longer there. They discovered themselves wrapping their own arms around their body, realizi

There are days when the mind becomes convincing. The stories grow loud. The future feels impossible. The bed feels safer than the day waiting outside of it. In those moments, we often believe we need a new thought, a better perspective, more motivation. But sometimes the mind is not the doorway forward, sometimes the body is. Before the walk comes standing. Before standing comes sitting. Before sitting comes a breath. One small movement. Then another. The remarkable thing is

Recently, I've been reflecting on partnership. There is a certain intimacy that develops when we allow another person to know us. Through listening. Through vulnerability. Through moments of trust. The same is true in our relationship with ourselves. The body's vocabulary reveals itself. A knot in the stomach. A tightening in the chest. A deep, unexpected breath. The more attention we give, the more familiar the language becomes. Like any meaningful partnership, the relations

One thing I've thought about often as a Dance/Movement Therapist is how challenging movement can be. As a dancer myself, that might sound like a strange thing to say. I've spent much of my life moving, both personally and professionally. Movement has been a source of joy, creativity, connection, and self-expression. Yet some of the most memorable experiences during my DMT training were also some of the most challenging. I remember feeling uncomfortable moving in ways that fel

Client: I should probably tell you something before we begin. Dance/Movement Therapist (DMT): Okay. Client: I'm not a dancer. DMT: Tell me more. Client: I don't know any steps. I have no rhythm. I've never danced in my life. DMT: What if none of that mattered? Client: Then what would I be doing here? I notice their hands gripping one another. Their shoulders are lifted. One foot taps quietly against the floor. They haven't taken a single step. Yet their body is already speaki

Some relationships feel like exhaling. Others feel like bracing. Lately, I’ve been thinking about how relationships live not only in the mind, but in the body. I often think about human connection as choreography: the unconscious rhythms we fall into with one another, the ways we reach, retreat, soften, or guard. The body notices long before the mind fully understands. There are relationships that invite expansion: • You feel more like yourself in their presence. • Conversati

A single step. A breath inhaled. A change of weight. Who knew something so simple could gently whisk you into the world of presence? For a fleeting moment, we arrive fully into the here and now. And there we are. Present. Aware. Connected. We spend so much of our lives moving quickly through our thoughts — replaying, planning, worrying, analyzing — often pulled away from the moment we are actually living. Yet sometimes, presence returns through the simplest things. Movement h

It asks us to unlearn performance. In Dance/Movement Therapy, there is a practice called Authentic Movement. At its core, it is beautifully simple and profoundly difficult. One person moves. One person witnesses. The mover closes their eyes and follows internal impulses alone. No choreography. No expectation. No performance. The invitation is simple: move only because your body asks you to. Stretch if your body wants to stretch. Curl inward if your body seeks safety. Be still

Stillness is often marketed as something peaceful. Meditation apps show serene landscapes. Wellness culture tells us to slow down. Social media romanticizes quiet mornings and perfectly curated routines. And while peace can come from slowing down… that’s not always what people experience when they first try it. Sometimes quiet feels deeply uncomfortable. You sit down for a few moments and suddenly your mind becomes louder than ever. Your to-do list starts running You replay o

“Movement is meaningless.” An unusual statement, perhaps especially coming from a Dance/Movement Therapist. After all, movement is often spoken about as symbolic. A gesture means grief. A posture means confidence. A pace means anxiety. Folded arms mean resistance. Tears during movement mean release. But I’d like to offer something different: Movement, on its own, is meaningless. Not empty. Not unimportant. Not without value. Meaningless in the sense that movement does not com

There is a moment I witness often in my work. A pause. A pullback. A body poised at the edge of movement… and not quite yet letting itself go. My clients come to me because they want to reconnect with themselves, with their bodies, with something deeper that feels just out of reach. And yet, when the invitation to move arises, something else shows up first. Control. Self-consciousness. The need to “get it right.” And it makes sense. We are conditioned to move with purpose, wi

The past does not determine one’s future, yet it can be a profoundly foundational starting point. There are those who would argue in opposition, and rightly so. The past, when one considers it, is no longer. All one truly has is the moment they are in now. Although this is intellectually known, as many individuals have experienced, the past sometimes haunts, resurfaces, or twinges into the present. When you try to figuratively shake it, push it away, or hide it, there it come

A deep exhale. A stretch of the leg. A brace of the arms. Dance/Movement Therapy lives here, in the body, in motion. It’s a way of working with the body to explore, express, and connect. Does one have to know how to dance? No, not at all. The name often creates a misnomer that you need dance experience. But really, DMT invites an individual to connect with their body at any point along the spectrum, from stillness to movement. A shift. A pose. A turn. Even a bre

What courage it takes to bear one’s most private and intimate experiences. Some speak of the partner they grieve. Others, of the intimacy they crave. And some share the quiet weight of addiction. When I hear these stories, I notice a common thread, the imprint on the body, the emotional toll carried within. How they lean toward the partner who is no longer in physical form, and feel the ache of that absence. How they long to hold the hand of someone not yet found. Or the empt

It’s that moment. You are experiencing a feeling and, although you know what you are feeling, you hold it in. Why do some of us do this? There are many reasons. Perhaps we want to avoid confrontation. Perhaps we were socialized not to express certain emotions. Or perhaps we are afraid of revealing our vulnerability. There’s often a moment where something is clearly present, but not yet able to be spoken. Yet the emotions remain. Verbally stifled. Held within the body. Over ti

Have you ever felt something so deeply you were at a loss for words? Or found yourself unsure how you were feeling at all. Almost as if there were a way of expressing it inside you that you could feel but not quite speak. Some emotions arrive before we know how to name them. They live first in the body, in breath, in tension, in the ache of something felt but not yet understood. And somewhere inside, a frustration begins to build, the need to bring something outward that cann